Forgive the indecency, the informal use of words;
Of not naming who is this for;
Of writing from far off, unspoken.
I have fallen into the category
Of hopeless romantics,
Hoping
That you’re romantic too.
I have a tendency to stutter,
To say a sweet slip-of-tongue that goes
‘I love……’
I have a tendency to miss you,
A tendency to court you.
I have the tendency to look
At curves
Than to look straightly.
But I like your eyes that are open,
Reminding me
Of how things
Can beautifully close.
I don’t know how you shape your self
Into the full or crescent of the moon.
Your waist is foreign
To my calm lips.
I do not know how you shape-up
Into the world
That I am lost in.
I am weak, and I tend to climb up
Like an ant wishing it had bitten you
A little higher
From your knees.
I tend to shy myself out,
Out from wallflowers,
Like a vine to the other wall,
Gripping my self.
I tend to give melted chocolates;
A flower, just one.
I have a tendency to serenade
At a wrong window.
I have a tendency to write…a love poem…
…for you.
I have a tendency to love.
I am… human.
© 2012 J.S.P.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Don't Forget
I am to blame for a poem
That comes right at you,
Tickling your knees, furry
As a stray cat.
I am to blame for the clumsy
That my hands have, my feet.
I have wronged you,
You and your charm, your giggle.
And I can’t seem to forget,
Just as you cannot seem to forget,
So remember me with this;
Only that I remember you
As forgiving,
But then you remember me
As unforgettable.
I have forgiven my pride;
I am saying sorry.
The stars have long forgotten sadness;
They’re looking at you.
Nag at me dear, than not to talk.
I have forgotten what it’s like
To talk to you,
And it did remind me
That I miss you.
Forgive;
Forget the guys in the past,
Your past.
Forget the horoscopes.
But just…
Just…
Forgive me.
© 2012 J.S.P.
That comes right at you,
Tickling your knees, furry
As a stray cat.
I am to blame for the clumsy
That my hands have, my feet.
I have wronged you,
You and your charm, your giggle.
And I can’t seem to forget,
Just as you cannot seem to forget,
So remember me with this;
Only that I remember you
As forgiving,
But then you remember me
As unforgettable.
I have forgiven my pride;
I am saying sorry.
The stars have long forgotten sadness;
They’re looking at you.
Nag at me dear, than not to talk.
I have forgotten what it’s like
To talk to you,
And it did remind me
That I miss you.
Forgive;
Forget the guys in the past,
Your past.
Forget the horoscopes.
But just…
Just…
Forgive me.
© 2012 J.S.P.
Look
Forever is not a measure of time, but of distance.
Let us start by looking up.
Think of stars, think of one, for example;
It is not about how long, but really how far.
It is not about the sweet tease with words.
It is not about the daily horoscope.
It is about you being missed,
Just because.
Looking down, I have yet to see my feet,
In front of yours, but instead
Have witnessed paths, stairs, and bridges
Crossed, passed that are never towards yours.
I have yet to see your toes…tickled.
I wonder if someone ever tied your shoe for you.
The fact that you had almost trip over,
Over the stones in the street
Makes you reachable,
Makes you human,
Makes me giggle.
Looking at you, I cannot call you ‘mine’.
I cannot possibly call my self ‘yours’ like you can,
Like you haven’t yet.
I have yet to call myself ‘free’,
For I cannot live without the heart.
And women weaken the heart,
As love makes you stronger.
Looking at you, this mere city seemed islanded.
My pen: an echo. But look at me.
Look at me by looking…at your left hand,
Being held by the other.
See me, praying for you.
Look…beyond missing
For that is where I am.
© 2012 J.S.P.
Let us start by looking up.
Think of stars, think of one, for example;
It is not about how long, but really how far.
It is not about the sweet tease with words.
It is not about the daily horoscope.
It is about you being missed,
Just because.
Looking down, I have yet to see my feet,
In front of yours, but instead
Have witnessed paths, stairs, and bridges
Crossed, passed that are never towards yours.
I have yet to see your toes…tickled.
I wonder if someone ever tied your shoe for you.
The fact that you had almost trip over,
Over the stones in the street
Makes you reachable,
Makes you human,
Makes me giggle.
Looking at you, I cannot call you ‘mine’.
I cannot possibly call my self ‘yours’ like you can,
Like you haven’t yet.
I have yet to call myself ‘free’,
For I cannot live without the heart.
And women weaken the heart,
As love makes you stronger.
Looking at you, this mere city seemed islanded.
My pen: an echo. But look at me.
Look at me by looking…at your left hand,
Being held by the other.
See me, praying for you.
Look…beyond missing
For that is where I am.
© 2012 J.S.P.
More Than Love
Love does not start with an ‘I’
And ends with a ‘You’.
But somehow love, this true love,
Has started…with you.
And how I wish that it is in you
Where it would end up with.
Love is more than a girl saying,
‘Just don’t hurt me’,
A guy answering,
‘I won’t, but just don’t leave me’.
It is more than a promise. I guess,
I’ve just remembered your voice,
Promising, very.
How I wish you could sing for me,
Even just once.
I’d love for you to sing ‘Eyes on Me’; you,
Only you, sweet acapella.
It’s not quite like…a boy…holding
His girl’s hand, walking,
Proud to wear a kiss-mark on his cheek,
Roses on his other hand.
It is not when a lover plays with your cheeks,
Pinching them softly, as if
They were the softest in the world,
And doing it just because.
It is nowhere near the kiss.
It is not in this love poem.
And I am nowhere near you.
I am a cup of coffee.
And you don’t drink coffee.
Love is not…when you’re tying your shoe, focused.
It is not when you sneeze.
It is not with your giggles, your wink.
It is not in your yawning.
It is not when you ascend or descend a staircase.
It is not when you ride the elevator with me.
It is not when you miss me back.
Love is not a conqueror,
So it does not conquer all;
It does submit to all.
Love is a servant.
I am a servant of love.
Now this is me, serving:
If you were to ask me
To just love you, just…love you,
I would— I would ask you…to just let me,
Always. I…would love you.
I think I love you.
But God…loves us more.
© 2012 J.S.P.
And ends with a ‘You’.
But somehow love, this true love,
Has started…with you.
And how I wish that it is in you
Where it would end up with.
Love is more than a girl saying,
‘Just don’t hurt me’,
A guy answering,
‘I won’t, but just don’t leave me’.
It is more than a promise. I guess,
I’ve just remembered your voice,
Promising, very.
How I wish you could sing for me,
Even just once.
I’d love for you to sing ‘Eyes on Me’; you,
Only you, sweet acapella.
It’s not quite like…a boy…holding
His girl’s hand, walking,
Proud to wear a kiss-mark on his cheek,
Roses on his other hand.
It is not when a lover plays with your cheeks,
Pinching them softly, as if
They were the softest in the world,
And doing it just because.
It is nowhere near the kiss.
It is not in this love poem.
And I am nowhere near you.
I am a cup of coffee.
And you don’t drink coffee.
Love is not…when you’re tying your shoe, focused.
It is not when you sneeze.
It is not with your giggles, your wink.
It is not in your yawning.
It is not when you ascend or descend a staircase.
It is not when you ride the elevator with me.
It is not when you miss me back.
Love is not a conqueror,
So it does not conquer all;
It does submit to all.
Love is a servant.
I am a servant of love.
Now this is me, serving:
If you were to ask me
To just love you, just…love you,
I would— I would ask you…to just let me,
Always. I…would love you.
I think I love you.
But God…loves us more.
© 2012 J.S.P.
At War
I have an army of jealous marching,
Armed with guitars.
I am no conqueror over the roses,
But they won’t get near you.
You are a flower of your own.
Your waist is a ninja.
A knife is at my throat.
Your breasts…are a tactical unit.
I am easily angered.
And you’d see me slaughtering
Flying-kisses with a katana;
Love letters for you, burned,
Gunpowder.
I’d be on a watch with a machine gun,
Guarding your heart.
And then you’d call me weird.
You see, my heart has a detonator.
And if it’s your wish to see me exploding,
And then let it be, yet do not pick the pieces,
The adjectives in the streets;
You’d only make a lament out of them.
Dear, I am just a blacksmith of words.
And your love…is a pepper spray.
I am at war
With your senses.
I want
Your attention.
© 2012 J.S.P.
Armed with guitars.
I am no conqueror over the roses,
But they won’t get near you.
You are a flower of your own.
Your waist is a ninja.
A knife is at my throat.
Your breasts…are a tactical unit.
I am easily angered.
And you’d see me slaughtering
Flying-kisses with a katana;
Love letters for you, burned,
Gunpowder.
I’d be on a watch with a machine gun,
Guarding your heart.
And then you’d call me weird.
You see, my heart has a detonator.
And if it’s your wish to see me exploding,
And then let it be, yet do not pick the pieces,
The adjectives in the streets;
You’d only make a lament out of them.
Dear, I am just a blacksmith of words.
And your love…is a pepper spray.
I am at war
With your senses.
I want
Your attention.
© 2012 J.S.P.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)